


The one with.....

by FreeShavocadoo



Category: Band of Brothers
Genre: Cliche prompts, M/M, MENTIONS OF BLOOD AND DEATH IN CHAPTER 7, Nothing but sweetness, Short Fics, utter fluff
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-06
Updated: 2019-02-07
Packaged: 2019-10-23 13:20:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,208
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17684243
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FreeShavocadoo/pseuds/FreeShavocadoo
Summary: A series of short fics involving the cliche tropes we hate to love; first kiss, first vacation, enemies to lovers and so on.((Pairings stated at the beginning of the fic, all pairings in the tags.))





	1. The one with the first kiss (LuzToye)

There was just no saying _no_ to Bill Guarnere. It didn’t happen, it wasn’t an option and anyone who thought it was _clearly_ hadn’t met a man with a laugh louder than a Stuka siren and a glare that would put anyone’s mother to shame. It didn’t matter how many times he was told he wasn’t getting his way, that he was a stubborn asshole, he just didn’t listen.

“I’m telling you,” Guarnere takes his cigarette out of his mouth promptly, “if anyone knows about romance, it’s ol’ Bill Guarnere.”

“I don’t trust someone who has to talk about themselves in the third person.” Toye’s reply is monotonous as usual, dark eyes peering at Guarnere over a pint of beer, unflinching.

Guarnere, as usual, laughs it off. “Sure, Joe. Anyway, as I was saying,”

Toye is certain what Bill is saying is probably important. To Bill, anyway. But he can’t even bring himself to listen, his willpower already sapped after a full hour of listening to him chatter away and laugh obnoxiously about what he considered to be Toye’s amusing predicament. It was just like Bill to make a situation like this one worse than it had to be, dramatize it and place himself as the saviour.

“Are you even listening to me?” Bill sounds indignant, his chin pointed up in a way that can only mean trouble. For the average man, anyway.

“No.” Toye grumbles, drinking and wishing momentarily that he could drown himself.

“Look, all’s you’ve got to do is-“

“Jesus _Christ_ Bill, I’m not asking for his hand in fucking marriage.” He growls, putting out his own cigarette with unnecessary force, his eyes flicking towards Bill with a flash of pure psychoticism. It was only Bill, after all, that brought out this level of fury in him in such a short amount of time.

It had started off innocently enough. A series of moments that Toye usually wouldn’t have thought twice about, brushing hands when they both reach for something, being caught staring at each other and looking away, always sitting far closer to each other than they have any right to.

But then again, George Luz grew on everyone the same way.

Like a tumour, slow and painful, right before it leads to your inevitable death. At least, that’s what it feels like right now. Toye just wishes he could go back to being blissfully unaware of warm brown eyes crinkling at him from across the table, always so effortless and charming in a way that had him both jealous and a kind of needy he didn’t even know he was capable of being. When Luz would just playfully nudge into his side, staring up at him with a wide grin, it was worse than any punch Toye had suffered, which was saying quite a lot for someone who frequented bars with the loudmouth that was Bill Guarnere. The same loudmouth who he’d drunkenly told his predicament days earlier, who’d been surprisingly mature and understanding. Until he decided he was the relationship guru.

“Hey, Joe!” Bill hisses, so obvious in his attempt to be discreet that several people at nearby tables in the bar turn to give exasperated looks to the man they know is the source of literally _all_ the noise in the bar. Bill points towards the door where a group of familiar faces troop in, loud and unabashed as they joke and laugh in tandem.

_Fuck._

“Hey!” Guarnere shouts, loud enough that Toye is sure he’s both deaf in one ear and also mute from embarrassment. “HEY!”

Malarkey is the first to notice Bill, as though he wasn’t yelling at the top of his voice. He elbows Muck who then slaps Luz on the back of the head none too gently. Perconte is already walking over balancing God knows how many drinks in his hands, Babe not far behind. It’s not long before all of them descend on the table, the previously mild irritation on the nearby patrons faces now turning to one of horror when Perconte drops one drink and then spills two more when he leans forward to pick it up, Babe cackling at him only to bang his head against Perconte’s two seconds later when he attempts to help.

Personally, Joe Toye wishes he was dead.

“Hey.” The voice is soft, though always humoured, as if everything he’s saying is amusing. Which Toye guesses is usually true.

“Hey.” Turning to look at Luz is perhaps painful in a new kind of way, his dimples more pronounced than ever as his eyes flicker to look at the commotion going on behind Toye’s back.

“Wanna go for a smoke?” Luz asks, already taking his packet of cigarettes from his pocket, staring at Toye questioningly. Though Toye can’t think of a reason as to why he should smoke outside instead of inside, he stands up, stepping over Perconte who is now on his hands and knees trying to mop up the mess with what seems to be Malarkey’s jacket. Malarkey, however, remains blissfully unaware as to the state of his wool coat, being too busy buying another round of drinks whilst the first is lying spilled on the floor and seeping into his coat.

The air is bitter and for once Toye is glad that he’s eternally warm, putting his cigarette up to his lips as he fumbles around for his lighter. He curses under his breath when he realises he’d given it to Bill barely half an hour ago; Bill, the unknowing lighter thief.

“Here,” Luz leans to light his cigarette for him, chuckling softly, “you’re in a great mood tonight.”

“Fuck off.” He replies, inhaling deeply before puffing out smoke languidly. “You try listening to _that_ laugh around a bunch of uptight assholes.”

“Well, I mean, I doubt they’ll be staying in there much longer,” Luz snorts, clearly remembering the image moments earlier of bedlam, “always causing trouble.”

“You’re one to talk.” Toye glances at him, always just a brief glance that gives him enough time to analyse every laugh line on George’s face. But this time he gets caught in the act.

“Oh yeah?” He counters, nudging Toye’s side with a wider grin, as if he just _knows_. It should horrify Toye, really, that Luz figured it out before he did. “You gonna kiss me or are we waiting for Bill to come out here and give you tips?”

That’s enough to sap every ounce of self-doubt from Toye, flinging his cigarette to the concrete and doing the same with George’s cigarette. His beautiful eyes have barely a second to register surprise before Toye descends on him like a man starved, an arm around his tiny, _damn him for thinking it_ , waist. George doesn’t seem to want to waste time either, hand on the back of Toye’s neck and curling into his hair, pulling him closer. It’s more intoxicating than any cigarette Toye has ever had and he’s positive he’d give up breathing just to stay right where he is. Unfortunately, George eventually pulls away.

“Guess we should get back in there, huh?” He smiles, nudging Toye’s cheek gently.

A chorus of shouts come from inside the bar, followed by a smash and unintelligible Philly shouting.

“Nah, let’s walk home.” Toye suggests, offering his arm to George who seems to leap over, linking both of his arms around Toye’s one. It’s ridiculously adorable.

He stares up at Toye with a face like sunshine and Toye’s certain that even Bill Guarnere can’t sour this moment for him.


	2. The one with the non-disastrous consequences (NixWinters)

It shouldn’t be too much to ask, really, that they have one weekend away together without incident. They’d been together for over five years and married for one and yet every single time they so much as thought about a romantic getaway, things started to go horribly wrong. Naturally, nature was inclined to act when two people so opposite fell into each other’s lives, so wrong it was completely right. Like day and night, light and dark. Or, in Richard Winters’ case, competent and incompetent.

“Dick!” Nix is already shouting from the hotel’s bathroom, as though it’s the most important aspect of their holiday to France. “You should see the size of this bathtub!”

Of all the rich history and architectural beauty in France and Lewis Nixon, self-professed rich boy, is in awe of a bathtub.

It was something that he’d come to love and loathe about the man. Whilst Dick wanted to spend the holiday on nature trails, going to museums and walking around the beautiful paved streets, Lew wanted to walk into every shoddy looking tourist shop there was just to buy novelty items he could get back home. Whilst Dick was content in the evenings to sit with a good book out on the balcony, breeze gently wafting through the air, still warm enough to sit outside in, Lew wanted to get absolutely blind-drunk and be the archetypal inconvenient tourist. Dick didn’t even want to get started on the theme parks, finding it hard to fathom why a man of Lew’s age wanted to go on a rollercoaster in a place that had one thousand more interesting things to do. But that was Lew for you- unapologetically clueless.

“Please tell me you’re not going to spend the entire weekend in those God-awful shops.” Dick sighs, seated on the edge of the bed with a look that says he’s already resigned to his fate.

“Huh?” Lew walks out of the bathroom, looking handsome as ever. “Nah, I’ve got something really romantic planned.”

_Oh no._

It wasn’t that Nix didn’t _try,_ God bless him, he did. But whenever the man would try to actively be romantic and considerate, everything seemed to go wrong. He wasn’t sure if it was a subconscious thing, given Nix’s relationship history and habit of self-sabotage, or if it was just the universe laughing at them both for trying to make such an unconventional pairing work. There was the time he’d boasted of a candle-lit dinner over text when Dick was at work, only for him to return to their house with the kitchen sink somehow on fire. Or the time that he’d planned a picnic with remarkable efficiency, only to spend the entirety of the most beautiful summers day they’d had that year being chased around their garden by wasps. Even their honeymoon had suffered from his bad luck, with Nix slipping on the rose petals he’d laid out on the floor in a trail to the bed, banging his head on the floor and knocking himself clean out.

“Hmm?” Dick feigns modest excitement, a forced smile on his face as he tries not to consider what maladaptive processes go on inside Lew’s head, or what disaster will strike. If he’s lucky, it won’t result in a concussion like the last attempt at romance did.

“First,” he begins, putting on his sunglasses and turning to look at Dick with a grin, “we’re going on a wine-tasting tour.”

“Oh?” Dick reprimands himself for imagining Lew somehow managing to set the place alight or drown himself in a vat of wine.

“Yeah!” He replies enthusiastically, boyish grin on his face. “Then, I’ve booked us a table for a nice dinner. Since I’m not doing it, we should be safe.”

Really, Dick’s not sure that’s any consolation but he nods enthusiastically anyway, especially when he considers the amount of planning Lew seems to have put in this time. Maybe it was his spontaneity that was always the cause of near death for everyone involved. Lest nobody forget that he stood on Kitty’s dress when she and Harry had their first dance at their wedding. Lew’s ability to cause chaos seemed indiscriminate.

“And finally,” he turns with a grin that Dick just feels in his bones means no good, “we’re going to come back here and have a _nice_ , _long_ bath.”

_Don’t think about him somehow managing to drown us both._

“That all sounds lovely, Lew.” He smiles softly, genuinely this time, at the consideration his hazard of a husband can have. People could say what they wanted about him, but he was a trier.

“Don’t worry, I made sure that my insurance was all sorted this time before we came here,” Lew tickles near Dick’s neck, a look of pure affection, “and I promise I’ll be on my best behaviour.”

When he kneels down to kiss Dick, he’s certain that Lew actually means it, though to be honest it was hard to think about anything with that bundle of mischief grinning into the kiss.

It would be hard to find a way to tell Lewis Nixon he was a walking catastrophe.

 


	3. The one with the first vacation (BabeRoe)

“Gene!” Babe’s voice carries through the hotel room, the ever-present combination of Philly indignation and frustration. “ _Gene!”_

“I’m here,” Gene peers over Babe’s shoulder, never one to get frustrated easily, especially when it comes to a redhead with a penchant for the dramatic, “what’s wrong?”

“I forgot my sunscreen.” He wilts visibly, a pout already forming on his face. It shouldn’t be as adorable as it is, but quite frankly Gene found everything Babe did impossibly cute.

“I’ve got enough for the both of us.” Gene replies, having already planned the necessary contingencies before they’d left.

Babe, bless his heart, was completely inadequate at looking after himself and being a well-adjusted adult. Try as he might, there was always something he’d forgotten, misplaced or otherwise irreversibly damaged. The way Gene saw it there were always two people in the relationship, the one who always loses things and the one who knows where everything is. Coincidentally, he’s had a knack for the latter since he was younger, always being able to have a perfect mental checklist for everything on every occasion. Babe could have his passport taped to his hand and still find a way to lose it, though, forever in his own Philly world.

When he’d suggested vacation, it seemed everyone was already awaiting some form of disaster. Bill had laughed manically and wished Gene the best of luck, saying the last time he’d been on holiday with Babe he’d ended up boarding a flight to Russia instead of to France, only realising when he stepped off the plane into a blizzard. Apparently, he’d had to stay there for a week whilst Bill made arrangements for him and Fran to make a connecting flight to Russia and back home. It seemed Babe’s bad luck didn’t even end there, with Gene even remembering the occasion Babe insisted he wanted to visit him in New Orleans, managing to knock on his cousin Merriell’s door instead. Naturally, Merriell stared at Babe with serpent eyes and laughed like an absolute crackhead for a solid five minutes before ringing Gene to tell him exactly where his boyfriend had gotten to.

“You’re perfect!” Babe exclaims, kissing his cheek and nuzzling against his neck softly before he decides to just drop all pretences and cuddle Gene the way he wants to every single time he sees him.

If perfection meant he had to carry around all of Babe’s things for the rest of his life and then some, Gene wouldn’t consider that too bad of an existence.

“Can we get ice cream?” Babe asks, already heading to the door in earnest before looking back at Gene with a sheepish grin.

“Sure,” Gene says, pulling Babe towards him with a gentle hand, “let me put some sunscreen on you first.”

Babe manages to stand diligently whilst Gene makes sure his bottle-white skin is covered adequately in sunscreen, knowing all too well the complains and whining that would follow if he were to get even a small amount of sunburn. Gene also, though with amusement, covers himself in sunscreen too. Even if he’d grown up in the Bayou, never far away from the feeling of the sun on his skin, he figures he must set some kind of example. Not that Babe even cares at this point that he’s often looked after so thoroughly that it’s almost as if he’s got a boyfriend and a carer in one. He frequently says it’s a combination of his sieve-like brain and Gene’s healing tendencies.

“Can we go now?” He’s already bursting towards the door, holding his hand out for Gene to take as they walk out of the hotel and down the street to the small ice cream stand.

Of course, Gene had to make sure he’d locked the hotel door and taken the keys with him, along with a water bottle for the easily dehydrated Babe and a pair of sunglasses for the inevitable squinting.

“This is great!” Babe says, in the middle of demolishing an ice cream cone that would have a lesser man running for the hills.

Gene just gets out the napkins he always has on hand to wipe at Babe’s chin, staring fondly as Babe moves the cone away just so Gene can clean around his mouth properly. When he passes one over for Babe to wrap around the ice cream cone to avoid the dreaded sticky fingers, Babe does so without question and positively beams at him.

How could anyone ever get angry at him when he’s so god-damn cute?


	4. The one with enemies that become questionable lovers (MoreSpeirs)

It had started off the way most flirtatious interactions do. Over Hitler’s photo album.

Quite frankly, Speirs thought that anyone who withheld such an item from him should be publicly flogged at the very least to teach everyone else a lesson. Nobody took his loot and got away with it, it was a simple fact. Nobody even bothered to intervene throughout the duration of the war, all too aware of the dangers that would follow if they did. It didn’t matter if they grabbed the priceless necklace first or spotted the full set of china teacups. As soon as they saw the familiar shadow and turned to the lifeless eyes of Ronald Speirs, they would put that loot down, so help him God.

More, however, was a different story entirely. He lacked any regard for rank or even pleasantries, which perhaps Speirs could respect to a certain degree, having always despised small talk. However, he remained the only man insane enough to steal from under Speirs’ nose, with such blatant disregard that it wasn’t even as if he was trying to be subtle. Speirs had been keeping track of every single item he’d been deprived of because of Alton More. The stainless-steel cutlery set, the plated gold antique pocket-watch, the Nazi knife or even the diamond encrusted necklace. All items he’d set his eyes on only to never see them again.

And to think people called Speirs a snake.

“I don’t believe a word out of your mouth, Private.” Speirs growls, staring at the blank and passive face that has been haunting his nightmares, nightmares where he returns home to find his stash of loot gone with a note from Alton More.

“Well, I’m sorry Sir but I’m telling you the truth. I have no idea where it went.” More’s face is completely unreadable, staring Speirs dead in the eye and moving his chin up ever so slightly.

“I don’t believe you!” Speirs yells, in utter disbelief at this man’s sheer stubbornness and also, dare he admit it, impressed.

More shrugs, glancing away briefly before staring right back at Speirs. It is then his eyes that betray him, twinkling with utter mischief regardless of how neutral the rest of his face was. Then he has the nerve to shoot Speirs a brazen smirk, as if he knows just how much he’s been stealing from the man, only to step back when someone knocks on the door.

“Sir.” He says, nodding and strolling out with utter confidence, definitely not the walk Speirs would expect from a dead man.

Alton More was on his list, officially.

They’d had plenty of fleeting interactions over the years, shitty get togethers that made Speirs want to poke his eyes out, spent glaring at the man who always found a way to push his buttons even now. From taking his beer whilst he wasn’t looking to asking him if he’d ever found who’d taken the album, Alton More had an actual death wish. Everyone else seemed to revel in this rebellion against a man none of them would dare rebel against, all in awe at More’s lack of self-preservation instincts when it came to Speirs specifically.

There was one time they’d stolen a bunch of jewellery from a pawn shop owner who tried to screw them both over on separate occasions when they’d sold him loot after the war. It would’ve been hard enough for the man to escape Speirs’ wrath but combined with the serpent More, his small and very valuable jewellery collection didn’t stand a chance. They’d gotten what they were owed and then some, with Speirs only realising when he’d gone home the following day that he was down a necklace.

It was some time after that he’d found himself in More’s small house, having been invited for drinks much earlier with a small group of men that had slowly thinned out over the course of the night, leaving just him and More. He surveys the living room, noting how tidy and ordered everything is, as though they could have any more in common. Then, he sees it sitting in a glass cabinet. It might be closed but the emblem on front gives it all away.

Hitler’s photo album.

“If you’re thinking of running away with that photo album, you best think again.” More’s voice is laced with amusement, standing right behind Speirs to glance over his shoulder at the cabinet.

Then, he says it.

“Finders keepers, right?”

Speirs could’ve found many ways to knock the smirk off his face. Stabbed him, punched him, shot him. Knocked him out and ransacked his house for loot to leave him with nothing. Yet, he pulls the man down for a kiss that summarises the pure rage the man has caused him, which is only furthered when More smirks into the kiss and gently yanks him closer. Speirs bites his lip before stepping back and huffing.

“If I moved in with you would it technically be _our_ photo album?”

“Sure,” More chuckles, tickling up the back of Speirs’ neck until his hand is swatted away, “if you’re gonna bring all your loot here to share with _me_.”

The nerve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This pairing is loot gold, don't @ me


	5. The one with the person who gets ill but won't admit it (SpeirsLipton)

“No.” He says, his voice indignant, chin in the air. “It’s not possible.”

“Ron,” Lipton tries his best to keep a straight face and be supportive, two of the qualities he’d had before meeting Speirs that had drastically improved throughout their relationship, “it’s not that bad!”

Speirs stares at the table of medication, sat under a pile of blankets with a face like thunder. His hair is a mess, the stubble on his chin testament to how shit he must be feeling considering the man was always immaculate. His eyes look as tired as ever, though he remains completely alert and at attention the way only Ronald Speirs would. It’s hopelessly adorable and Lipton knows Speirs would kill him if he ever said it, though they both know deep down he’s thinking it regardless.

“I’m telling you, I’ve not been ill since I was seven years old.” Speirs protests, arms now folded across his chest with his frown deepening. He stares at the medication as though it offends him, as if it is nothing but adding insult to injury.

“Everyone gets ill!” Lipton attempts to rationalise, sitting beside his boyfriend and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. Speirs instantly leans towards the touch, malleable in a way nobody ever expects, his nose against Lipton’s neck. “It’s perfectly normal.”

“Not _me._ ” He grumbles, nuzzling softly against Lipton’s neck and sighing. “ _I_ don’t.”

“I don’t see what the problem is, really,” Lipton strokes Speirs’ hair softly, smiling when Speirs’ eyes begin drooping and his body starts to go limp, sprawling right beside him, “let’s give you some medicine and you can rest.”

“But I don’t need any!” He’s positively whining at this point, borderline pouting, and if it wasn’t for the fact he was ill Lipton would’ve kissed his face off by now, overwhelmed by the urge to suffocate Ronald Speirs in utter affection.

“Please?” Lipton says in earnest, stroking his cheek and making sure to stare directly into Speirs’ eyes. “For me.”

“But it’s not fair.” Speirs takes the painkillers from the counter, taking two and swallowing them both one after the other without water, like a complete psychopath. He follows it with the flu capsules, finishing off with a lengthy swig of the cup of tea Lipton had made for him with extra honey.

“Why?” Lipton chuckles, shaking his head softly and smiling at the glare he gets in return. “You’ll probably be better by tomorrow, you’re already recovering faster than the average person.”

“That’s not the point.” Speirs retreats to his pile of blankets, barely visible above them, huffing as he goes.

“Then what _is_ the point?” He asks carefully, standing up to adjust the pillows behind Speirs’ head when he moves to lie down, grumbling even as Lipton is doing that. He settles down, though, cocooned under several blankets with his head propped up.

“If I’m ill you can’t be around me too much.” His voice is muffled, but Lipton hears him perfectly fine. Now he really wants to crush Speirs in a hug, until there was nothing left of him. He really was too much.

“Don’t be silly.” Lipton says, moving to lie beside him, hooking an arm around his waist but giving him enough space to move around and not be too constricted.

“No,” Speirs protests weakly, turning to look over his shoulder with a weak glare, “I don’t want you getting sick as well.”

“If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen. You’ll just have to look after me if it does.” Lipton kisses his head, turning off the bedside lamp and curling comfortably by Speirs’ side, kissing his shoulder.

“I suppose you’re right.”

Ronald Speirs was worth more than the average cold.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Who doesn't love this pairing?


	6. The one with the first time they say "I love you" (WebGott)

Everyone had those habits that started off endearing and eventually end up infuriating. It was no one’s fault that the little quirks they had that started as small nuances start to grate on someone to the point where the slightest indication can set someone on a downward spiral.

Coincidentally, Joe Liebgott had the opposite problem. He didn’t know when it started and honestly, thinking about the times he was blissfully unaware of his developing problem just made him even more furious. If someone would’ve asked him one year ago to say something that annoyed him about David Webster, they’d have been there all day and Liebgott still wouldn’t have finished his list of annoyances. He thought too highly of himself, he’d correct your grammar, he’d sneer at your choice of books. Hell, when they first moved in together, they were still at each-others throats all of the time because he’d get uppity over having the duvet moved even an inch closer to Liebgott than he deemed necessary.

Then, one day, it all started to change.

It’d been two o’clock in the morning that he’d woken up to the familiar breeze up his back, the bitter cold seeping into every inch of his exposed skin until he can feel the shivers coming on. The heating in their apartment was meagre at the best of times and the fact Liebgott insisted on sleeping in just his underwear hardly helped matters. As if like clockwork, his eyes land on Webster before he’s even conscious of it. There he lies like a Disney fucking princess, in an oversized sweater and pyjama pants curled up under the entire duvet, like he wanted to be smacked in the mouth. But maybe he looks _too_ comfortable. Maybe, after a long day of trying to meet a deadline for one of his books meant that Liebgott could perhaps understand Webster’s inability to care about what he was doing accidentally in his sleep.

_He looks fucking adorable._

When he cracks open one dreary but beautiful as ever blue eye, it’s like a punch to the gut for Liebgott and it takes every ounce of his being as a hot-blooded moron to not squeeze Webster to death for having the sheer a _udacity_ to look so fucking cute.

“Joe?” He mumbles, rubbing his eyes and staring in complete bewilderment. “What is it?”

Even the way his nose is crinkling as his eyes try to adjust in the pitch black to stare at Liebgott, who by this point must look like some kind of grade A creep staring at him whilst he’d been sleeping, is cute.

“Nothin’.” He replies, sliding right beside Webster to hook an arm around his waist, revelling in the way his boyfriend is like a radiator at this moment in time.

“You mean nothin- _G_.” Webster corrects him, even half asleep, yawning and moving backwards into Liebgott.

A lesser Liebgott would’ve smacked him on the head hard enough to concuss him before stealing the entire duvet, as he had done many times before. It usually resulted in either a brief wrestle before Webster started to get his typical brand of ‘horny at odd hours and times’, or with Webster having one of his righteous indignation moments where he rolls over to sleep with his arms folded. Not that he lasted long before he curled back up beside Liebgott.

“Yeah, yeah, Web.” He kisses Webster’s shoulder, marvelling at the fact his boyfriend can look so good in a jumper that is practically falling apart at the seams and pyjama pants that would be suitable for a pensioner. That was Webster for you, irritatingly attractive.

“You’re freezing.” He murmurs, moving one of Liebgott’s arms over his waist to hold against his chest, rubbing it gently between his own hands.

Yet again Liebgott must admit that if this had been said mere months earlier, he’d have laughed into Webster’s ear before yelling that _of course I’m cold, you Harvard prick, you’ve snatched the fucking blanket like you always do because of **course** you would!_

“I’ll be fine in a few minutes.” He leans forward to kiss Webster’s cheek gently, appreciating the sleepy smile he gets in return.

“Make sure to set your alarm properly this time so you’re not late for work.” Webster somehow still manages a tone of authority, even as sleep is taking over and his eyes droop.

“God, I fucking love you.” He says, without thinking about it, arm wrapped around his waist.

There’s the briefest of pauses, Webster’s eyes now fully open as he turns to look over his shoulder at Liebgott with an unreadable expression. Then, he smiles, as though heaven is fucking cracking open and beaming down on Joe Liebgott.

“I love you too.” He smiles, kissing Liebgott’s hand and leaning in to give Liebgott a proper, though sleepy, kiss. He turns back around and settles down again, hand clasped around Liebgott’s and clutched to his chest.

As soon as Webster’s breathing gets heavier, Liebgott just chuckles softly, wondering when the unbearable David fucking Webster had managed to worm his way past ten layers of seething rage.

He was still an asshole, though.


	7. The one with the near death experience (GrantSpeirs)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> * WARNING; MENTIONS OF BLOOD, DEATH AND NEAR-DEATH EXPERIENCES. Nothing too graphic but please be aware.*

He’d heard a lot of the guys talking about their close shaves with death, the near misses that they all later laughed about around a campfire as if their dreams weren’t plagued with the memories of it. Almost every single one of them had had at least one of those memories by the time they’d reached Austria, having undergone all seven circles of hell after Bastogne. Though there were obvious issues to be had with the lack of open conversation about their experiences, genuine and not veiled with humour conversations, there is at least always an underlying sense of comradery.

Not that it meant much when he hit the ground with a bullet in his head.

He barely remembers the specifics. He was driving the Jeep, talking about Bill Guarnere. He gets out of the Jeep to talk to a guy who looks disoriented, only to realise he has a gun in his hand and that there is a dead German officer on the ground, blood seeping around his head. He was unintelligible, slurring with absolute venom as he stares down at the dead body. By this point, Grant’s survival instincts should’ve kicked in, but still, he follows the guy to the other Jeep that’s parked up, to see another body on the floor. A British Major, he says, slurring about how he won’t need the gas anymore.

He shouldn’t have stepped forward so fast. He shouldn’t have assumed the man wouldn’t act like a caged animal, considering the two bodies on the floor. But then, the two bodies on the floor becomes three and it’s his own blood seeping across the floor as he hears people shouting his name in the distance.

He’s vaguely aware of the glaring lights above him, lying on a table as a medic is saying he’s beyond saving. He’s not sure what he’s feeling or if he’s feeling anything at all, until Captain Speirs’ hand grasps his own with firm resolve, squeezing enough for him to actually feel it. There’s something reassuring about being able to see the fire in his eyes as he demands Doc Roe help move him elsewhere to find someone who will operate, even if the fuzziness behind his eyes makes him want to say it’s pointless. Yet, the man who hops over mortar shells and runs across enemy territory would hardly take that for an answer and Grant is thankful for the unshakeable Ronald Speirs, manoeuvring him onto the Jeep and looking more rattled than he’s ever seen him as he gets into the driver’s seat. Grant is barely even aware of Doc Roe as his head lies on its side, eyes fixated on his guardian angel.

They tell him the operation was a miracle, that a brain surgeon had been dragged to operate on him by Speirs and managed to fix him up in a matter of hours. When he wakes up, he’s got a minor headache and a slight pain in his left arm, but he can see perfectly fine. He can see Speirs’ hand clasped around his own once more, the man sleeping with his head on Grant’s bed, looking softer than he thinks he’s ever seen him look. He opens his eyes, already adjusted, to stare at Grant in bewilderment.

“You’re one tough son of a bitch, I’ll give you that.” He says simply, not letting go of Grant’s hand. In a way, he’s thankful for it. The slight lack of feeling in his left arm is unnoticeable when he can feel Speirs’ firm grip. It was like an anchor for him, now forever associated with being the closest he ever has to death yet finding someone who refused to let it happen.

“The medic, he said-,” Grant begins, interrupted by Speirs.

“Yeah well, he was wrong, wasn’t he?” Speirs huffs, a scowl on his face. “Doctor was surprised you didn’t die from shock. Said you were the toughest man he’d operated on.”

“Well I’m sure he’d change his mind if it were you in the hospital bed, sir.” Grant replies with a small laugh, imagining Speirs with a bullet wound. He’d probably try to self-operate.

Speirs smiles, looking ten years younger, before his smile falters. His eyes seem to darken entirely as if the pupil has swallowed them.

“We found the bastard that did it.” His voice is low, his hand trembling slightly around Grant’s and he’s sure he can feel the man’s fury. It should scare him, really.

“And?” He asks, unsure even now what Speirs would’ve done to the man. He’s certain the others would’ve jumped at the chance to find the guy that’d done it as well.

“I told them to leave him to the mp’s.” His voice is rougher, quieter. “I could’ve shot him. I should’ve.”

“No.” Grant replies, shaking his head. “Then what would be the difference between you and him?”

“That I didn’t shoot an innocent man. That’s a very important difference.” Speirs says, and Grant knows he truly believes this. There’s nothing weird or disconcerting about it because it’s not surprising. The man has the strongest resolve in himself as a solider and Grant knows it must’ve taken every fibre of his being to hand the guy over to the military police. He can imagine the beating he’d probably gotten before they’d even handed him over.

“Thank you.” Grant says simply, not able to find many more words to convey how thankful he is to have this unmoveable man in his life, this all-encompassing force to be reckoned with. He wouldn’t even try to find them anyway.

“You don’t have to thank me.” He replies gruffly, squeezing Grant’s hand and placing the lightest kiss on the palm of his hand.

Suddenly, it’s as if his whole body is hypersensitive.

The brain surgeon could've and probably had performed miracles on Charles Grant, but the man who saved him would always be the one who steals anything that isn’t nailed down and grasps his hand like his life depends on it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unconventional, in a way. But the way Speirs held Grant's hand will always get to me....

**Author's Note:**

> All and any feedback appreciated! :)


End file.
